Hands of Macbeth

It was nearly dawn, the silence of the house pierced by the sound of a man bursting into his fluorescent white washing chamber. Despite his good taste of custom made clothing that shows his wealth and rank, but all evidence of his present condition would point to the contrary. Trying his best to wash away the blood stain on his guilty hands. ‘Who’s there? What hoe?’ he shouted at the creaking sound behind him. ‘Fear not my husband, it’s just me, your loving lady,’ answered the women in her dress robe as she steps into the light. ‘Is the deed done?’ ‘The deed is done,’ he fearfully replied. ‘In the prayers they slept. Amen stuck at the throats as they see me with this hangman’s hand as their death sentence. Did you not hear a noise?’ ‘I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry but no prayers were catch by this ears,’ she praised her husband’s doing. ‘A job well done, my love. Tell me why is there an absence of joy in your face?’ ‘There stains on my bloody hands. I wash the blood a thousand times with the Neptune’s great oceans but rather seas incarnadine than clean from my hands.’ ‘My hands are your colour, as fair as always my love. No stains at all. Now let not the bed empty any longer. Come sleep before the lark sings,’ said the wife. ‘I shall lie on the bed with you but sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more.’

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